


Some Living After We Die

by Dorinda



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: Aftermath, Alley Sex, Drinking, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Near Death Experiences, Rain, scuffling as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-24
Updated: 2006-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/pseuds/Dorinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't every day you discovered just how you'd die, when it came down to it. Or just who would die for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Living After We Die

**Author's Note:**

> Set after series 1, episode 6.

It wasn't every day you got held hostage. Not every day your mum didn't pull the plug. Like a double birthday. So Sam sat down in the Railway Arms and tried to just let himself _be_ in bloody 1973 for a change. He drank enough to make him stop thinking so much, and then drank some more. He smiled at Annie. He bought Chris a pint. Just a regular bloke, he told himself, that's me.

The day had gone by so slowly, laden with dread, the clock ticking down--but now that the danger was past, now that he'd love it if time telescoped out into a mellow eternity, the night already felt half over. Every time he lowered his glass, it seemed more people had chucked it and gone home, out into the rain. And eventually, as seemed almost customary by now, Sam looked blearily down the bar and all he saw was Gene, hand wrapped around a pint glass, staring into it like he was reading his own palm through the bitter. He didn't look like he felt very heroic.

"Like being drunk. On meself," he'd said, pushing close, looking down into Sam's eyes with a sudden and surprising honesty. Well--not surprising he'd be honest, really, Sam thought, getting to the bottom of his latest pint. The surprise was, he supposed, that he'd be _so_ honest, so often. Sam's question would have been easy to pass off with something crass, or maybe something to bolster up his reputation as a hard man. But he didn't. How's it feel, Sam had asked, and Gene had thought it over and answered. Will wonders never cease.

As if he could tell he was being watched, Gene looked up. He gazed at Sam, his eyes opaque.

Sam moved--steadily, he thought--over to sit next to him. "Your round," he said cheerfully, more to ignite a spark than anything. But Gene just waved a yawning Nelson down and silently gestured for two more of the same.

Sam took a swallow of the fresh pour and licked foam from his upper lip. He wondered if anyone else in the world had ever got away with asking the mighty Gene Hunt about his feelings. But Sam Tyler, prestidig-- presti-- magician extraordinaire, he'd pulled rabbits out of this particular hat before. Or maybe that was put his head in the lion's mouth. Hard to say.

He slouched one elbow on the bar and watched Gene watching him. "You all right?"

Gene grunted, and drank deeply. "You mean, other than the fact that my team has no bloody future?"

Sam blinked at him. "You know, there are anti-depressants for people like you. Fix your serotonin reuptake." He hoped he'd got the words right. There were a lot of consonants.

Gene just held on to his pint and watched Sam with unreadable eyes. Like he was waiting. But then the moment was over, and he looked back inside his glass.

"Seriously, guv." Sam paused. "Gene." But that didn't spark anything either--since their time undercover, it had lost its power to irritate. Gene seemed to be getting used to it. Come to think of it, so did Sam. "You're in the papers. Jackie Queen herself says you did well."

He meant to give that more of a mocking twist, but Gene just nodded. Drank again, tipping the glass way back--Christ, it was almost empty. He really could just pour it down his throat like lemonade. Sam took a few hasty sips to catch up.

"Your round," Gene said, thumping his glass down. Sam looked for Nelson, but he was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't locked up--probably in the back, getting the broom, ready to sweep them out with the rest of the rubbish. Sam shrugged philosophically and went behind the bar himself, producing two very respectable pints.

He released the tap handle with a satisfied flourish and slid Gene's bitter across to him. "Get that down you. Put hair on your chest," he said. "I suppose I should thank you for giving me a line on a second career."

"Good thing, too." Gene drank, as always, in casually giant swallows, seemingly taking in half the glassful with one tip of his elbow.

Sam put money in the till and contentedly tucked in to his own fresh pint. "Approve of moonlighting, do you?"

"Just think you'll need it. When you get tossed out the station on your arse."

Sam frowned. Even through the bubbles all the drink had put in his blood, he was starting to get annoyed. He leaned on the bar right in front of Gene and stared at him. "Come on. What's all this in aid of?"

Gene lifted his chin, meeting Sam's eyes piercingly. "The team, that's what. My team. Forget about saving the bloody whales, _they're_ the endangered species." He pronounced the last two words with exaggerated delicacy.

"Excuse me," Sam said, furrowing his brow, "but I seem to remember you and me being a little bit endangered ourselves. Perhaps you recall? While most of the team was outside being trod upon by Litton's tiny boots? Granted, I'm not sure if I'd have traded places...."

He expected a reaction to the mention of Litton, even the smallest upward twitch of Gene's mouth or lightening of his eyes, but he didn't get it. Instead, Gene just lifted his glass, sucked down the rest of the pint with breathtaking ease, and slammed the glass on the bar.

"My round," he said, his voice bright and hard. "Same again."

That tone, that fucking tone, it made Sam see red. He forced an insincere smile. "Time, gentlemen!" he said, as chipper as he could manage. "Afraid I'm going to have to cut you off."

Gene's eyes narrowed. Sam spoke again on a welcome jolt of adrenaline, leaning in tauntingly: "You might want to think about working on a few of the twelve steps, guv. Step one: don't be such a prick."

Something flared in Gene's face, and he stood up slowly, his back fiercely straight. Sam braced himself, ready to jump the bar if he had to, eager to get into it. But Gene just stared for one more moment, then abruptly turned, grabbed his coat, and stalked from the pub.

"Fucking hell!" Sam said aloud, hammering both fists down. "Just--"

He caught sight of Nelson across the empty room and stopped, sheepish. Nelson stood by the doorway to the back, leaning on the broomhandle.

"You know, mon brave," he said, his Jamaican patois laid on thick, "that Mr Hunt, he talks an awful lot." He looked at Sam intently. "But he don't always say much."

Sam looked back at him, puzzled. His mind felt sluggish.

Nelson said quietly, "Go on, Sam." The patois was gone now, and it was soft Lancashire again.

Not _Go home, Sam._ But _Go on, Sam._

_Find out, Sam._

Sam ran round the end of the bar, seized his leather jacket, and burst out of the pub doors into the drizzle.

Gene's legs were long, and he was using a rapid, angry stride, but he was still visible in the dark and rainy distance. And Sam might not be quite his size, but he could run. He sprinted down the pavement after him, jacket in one hand, lightheaded and frustrated.

"Hang on!" he called, coming up behind him. "Just--what d'you think you're doing?"

Gene glanced at him, his expression forbidding. "Going home," he said. "Same thing you're doing. Don't be late tomorrow. Get some good bloody work done for a change."

"You don't think I did any good bloody work today?" Sam barely resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulder and spin him around, but it was a near thing. "Think I...what, _guv_ , I endangered your precious team while they were outside drinking tea?"

That did it--not as satisfying as pulling him round himself, but it made Gene pause, stop, and turn on him at last. His face was cast mostly in shadow, taut and still.

"It's your precious team too, Detective-Inspector Tyler," he said. "I think you forgot that."

"You should've stopped three pints ago," Sam scoffed. Gene was only getting quieter, and it was starting to make him nervous.

Gene shoved his hands in the pockets of his camel coat, the shoulders beading with water droplets. He studied Sam, unexpectedly silent. And then he spoke, evenly: "They say everyone wishes he could read his own obituary, see what happens after he dies. But I saw it, and it was bollocks."

Sam felt that like a punch, taking the wind out of him, leaving him cold. He remembered that moment far too clearly--he could still feel his shock. His stammering disbelief.

No, more than that, his grief. Sheer fountaining grief, more than he'd ever expected or acknowledged, threatening to ruin him. Almost making him run mad. If Gene hadn't sat up and casually waved the dented flask about...he couldn't even think what might have happened. And of course Gene had heard it all.

There was nothing to say. The adrenaline he'd been savoring, the taste of a good push and pull, it all drained away and went grey. Gene had seen what happened, and it was bollocks.

Sam crossed his arms over the bundled leather jacket, looking away. Rain misted coldly against the back of his neck.

"First thing you did was get up Litton's nose," Gene said. He sounded more sure now, brusque, even cocky, less of that strange flat tension in his voice. "All well and good when I'm around. But I was dead, and no one up the long ladder knows you from bloody Adam, do they. No one owes you any favours. How long, you think, before Litton's off to tea with the Super, getting some sympathetic prat appointed over you instead of you running the team, eh? Keep his hand in with CID, make sure he has a lapdog on board at last. And that's the end of the team, make no mistake."

The words, in their increasingly blunt, confident tone, flowed over him, but Sam was hardly listening through the chagrin roaring in his ears. He didn't just remember those last long thudding moments as the clock moved to two, he could practically relive them. His eyes had kept blurring with helpless tears. Annie had returned his smile, brave girl. And Gene...

Gene was going to be Sam's last sight on this earth. Reality, dream, coma, or madness, it didn't matter, it was all the same, and it was all going to end with Gene's face, his eyes, meeting Sam's and burning into them. Saying even more than Sam could comprehend in those last few eternal seconds. He wasn't going to forget that, even if he couldn't fully understand it.

Something nagged at him, though. A familiar sense of unfinished business, of a loose end, like a dead lead on a case that suddenly opened up into a new avenue altogether. Something about Gene's voice now, gone from overly flat to overconfident. And something about Gene's voice then, murderous, hushed and trembling...

"When you're done with him, you better turn on me quick, Cole, or I'll kill you."

He hadn't consciously thought about it at the time. He'd...had a few other things to think about, if he hadn't already been completely out of his mind (or what was left of it). But now, he got it, and he held it like a weapon and turned back toward Gene, colour seeping back into the world.

"Oh, you're right, guv, I let the team down," he said. He took a breath, his blood tingling again. "But I learned from the best."

"You what?" Gene said, dangerously.

Sam uncrossed his arms, flexing his free hand, rocking insolently on the balls of his feet. "You weren't thinking much about 'the lads,' were you, when you reminded Reg to hurry up and kill you next."

He saw it sink in--and more, before Gene's fury dropped fully into place, he saw the fear underneath. He hadn't known Gene all that long, as ordinary lives reckoned these things. But his life hadn't been so terribly ordinary lately. For whatever reason, there were some things he just _knew_ about Gene, some strange ways he could read him, unlike anyone else he'd ever known. And this was one of them: right now he knew Gene's back was to the wall, and he knew Gene was regrouping, bracing himself to keep Sam from pushing any closer. He had to move fast, and get him off guard. He had to--and, he admitted to himself, he wanted to.

"What's wrong, don't you like being a role model?" he asked, cocking his head. "How else could I figure out how to abandon th--"

There was the word and the key, and Gene uncoiled like a striking snake, grabbing Sam by the collar and yanking him off balance, turning him, shoving him against the wall. Sam dropped his jacket and brought his arms up hard, breaking the hold, baring his teeth to match Gene's snarl. He threw a jab toward Gene's shoulder, and dodged a return punch at his stomach. A good shove against Gene's chest sent him back a few steps. Gene answered with a full charge, ignoring a glancing blow to his chin, seizing Sam and grappling with him. They struggled, their gasping breaths mingling and hoarse in the quiet night.

Finally, Gene's back was literally to the wall, Sam tucked down in a scrum to hold him there. Gene shifted and gave him an impatient push, and when Sam doubled up his fists and went on guard, Gene waved him away disgustedly.

"Get off. Bloody nutter." The pure defensive fury was gone from his voice, as Sam had hoped. They stood, panting, watching each other. Gene looked away first. He stepped away from the wall and tugged at the lapels of his coat, putting it right. Then he started to walk again, hands in his pockets, as if this little interlude had never happened. Sam picked up his jacket and walked alongside him.

They turned a corner, heading down a smaller lane. Without looking at him, Gene said quietly, "Put your coat on. It's raining."

It's always raining, Sam wanted to say, though he knew it wasn't really so. Felt like it sometimes. He remembered the song his dad used to sing now and then on wet days--"Take me back to Manchester when it's raining, I want to wet me feet in Albert Square..."--but he also knew, as he'd learned at school, that Manchester actually got less rain per year than places like New York City. It was just that New York poured it out on your head in one sitting, like tipping out a bucket, while blessed Manchester saved it and let it mist over you all day long. All day and all night.

Sam put his jacket on, ruffled a hand over his damp hair. "What happened?" he asked, not looking at Gene, leaving him that distance.

The silence stretched out long, broken only by their footsteps. Even though Sam had already pulled rabbits out of this particular hat and put his head in this particular lion's mouth, like some kind of one-man circus, in the end he didn't truly expect to be let in any farther. Certainly not this far. It was beyond the pale, he finally decided, for a man like Gene. A man of his time.

But at last, Gene did speak, his voice soft but matter of fact. "I didn't know I was going to say it. Meant it, though."

Even this, he could talk about. It shook Sam's certainties about him, and about his time.

"Look," Sam said, "I know you didn't forget about the team."

"Oh, you know that, do you?"

Sam raised his voice. "He was going to kill you whether you wanted it or not."

He glanced over at the shadows of Gene's face in time to see him smile ruefully. "But it's the thought that counts, innit."

They walked on. Sam's head was still buzzing, drink and leftover adrenaline and nerves--and it wasn't every day you discovered just how you'd die, when it came down to it. Or just who would die for you.

He turned into an alleyway, and Gene hesitated. "Where you off to?"

"Come on," Sam said. "Shortcut."

Gene followed him, though Sam was sure he knew the city's lanes and alleys better than the corridors of the station, and knew full well there was no real shortcut here.

Sam stopped, leaned against the damp sooty brick of the wall. He reached out and prodded Gene's lapel. "Give us a drink, will you."

Gene unearthed one of the remaining miraculous flasks and handed it over. Sam drank gratefully, enjoying the dry sting of the fumes in his sinuses. Single malt. A refinement he wouldn't have expected from Gene Hunt, which only showed how much he still didn't know.

He was reminded of that early morning by the canal when Gene took the flask and drank in turn. They passed it back and forth as they'd shared the bottle then. But there was something else now, one more chance he had to take. Maybe the night, maybe the drink, maybe the pistol to his head or the bullet striking Gene's chest. Maybe even the possibility that it wasn't real so he might as well--though that idea was harder and harder to keep in mind, even by brute force. Whatever the last reason--or the last thought that pushed him _beyond_ reason--he made up his mind. The next time he handed back the flask, he let his fingers touch Gene's, and more than touch them. It was over the line. As best he could tell--though given the flexibility of Gene's chosen forms of male bonding, he supposed you couldn't be sure.

Gene didn't react. He polished off the last swallow of scotch and moved to put the flask away. But Sam, impatient, took it from him and pushed his own hand in to tuck the flask in the inner pocket. He left his hand under the coat, felt the heat beneath Gene's shirt and the rapid beat of his heart. Looked up at Gene's face in the dark. This surely had to be over the line. He'd know, any moment, how far he could push.

In the next moment, he found out: Gene stepped close and pressed him hard against the brick, like one of their skirmishes but better. Much better. The camel coat was damp outside with a misty coating of rain, but he put his arms around Gene inside where it was dry and warm. The tall body surrounded him and covered him, so he had a solid Mancunian wall at his back and at his front. For the first time in a long while, Sam almost didn't feel alone.

It was good to be so close, smelling the smoke and liquor and heat of him. And there were things that would be even better, that would feed the fire woken in the pit of his stomach, but even through the careless haze of darkness and alcohol Sam felt cautious. He'd pushed and Gene had pushed back, thank God, but even here, how far was too far? Schoolboy stuff, he decided hastily, sliding one hand down to Gene's zip. Everyone played round at school, didn't they. He hoped. He wanted to keep him close just that little bit longer--he didn't want to startle him.

But he was the startled one. Gene reacted to his touch with a soft noise, one hand moving to the back of Sam's head. And Gene pulled back, just far enough. And kissed him.

Schoolboy stuff, Sam thought wildly. On what planet? He opened to the seeking, knowing mouth and concentrated on the work of his hand, taking care, following each shudder of Gene's body, making it good. Gene was solid and real. So was Sam. And no one died today. Except hopefully _le petit mort_ , Sam thought, which made him grin against Gene's lips, knowing himself for a pretentious little sod, wishing he could explain it out loud and provoke Gene's best gimlet stare.

Finally Gene lost his coordination, braced one hand on the wall, and gasped out his climax against Sam's temple. Sam waited, carefully, and zipped him back up. This would be the uncomfortable part, he reckoned. He didn't want to let go just yet, but as Gene's head cleared he'd surely--

But Gene just caught his breath and shoved Sam back more firmly against the wall, kissing him again, both hands at the fastening of Sam's trousers. The feel of those long, deft fingers on him, just rough enough, more than sure enough, nothing coy or hesitant or ungenerous--Sam's brain whited out into glorious static, and his body alone took up the cause.

He might have said something when he came, it might have been Gene's name, but he wasn't sure. He took great, heaving breaths against the soft shoulder of the camel coat. And when he could, at last, he eased himself away, slumping back against the chilly wall. His head felt heavy, and he looked at Gene with languid calm.

Gene seemed untraumatized, pulling out a handkerchief and matter-of-factly wiping his hands. He tucked that away and patted his many pockets, coming up with one remaining flask, shaking it to hear the slosh. He drank. Offered it to Sam. Sam took one warming sip and gave it back. Gene squinted down the neck for a moment, then tipped it up and swallowed.

They headed out of the alleyway. It was very late, the air thick with an utterly silent, foggy calm. Wasn't too much farther to the station car park, Gene's Cortina dappled with raindrops.

Gene jerked his head toward the car, brows up, but Sam shook his head. "I'm walking."

"Suit yourself," Gene said, fishing for his keys. "Might as well stay right here. Work tomorrow."

Sam grinned. "Do some good bloody work for a change."

"Chance'd be a fine thing." He sniffed and folded himself into the driving seat.

Before he could close the door, though, Sam said, "Remind me, will ya, I owe you a drink."

Gene paused, frowning up at him.

"Your flask copped it in the line of duty, didn't it? Cos of me. I owe you one."

The frown became a friendly scowl, a haughty pressure of the lips. His eyes showed that he understood. "One?"

"Maybe more than one," Sam conceded.

Gene started the car, foot heavy on the petrol, revving the motor. "You can buy me dinner," he said, raising his voice over the din. Then he slammed the door and roared away, headlights popping on very belatedly as he rocketed round a corner.

Sam walked home through the dwindling mist, warm and thoughtless and replete. And though there wasn't long before the milk float would arrive, he took off his damp clothes, hung them up, and got under the covers. No telly. No nightmares. And for just this once, no pressure in the pit of his stomach, where the loneliness usually lived. Just for now, he was here. Fully here. And he was glad.

**Author's Note:**

> For Wa, September 2006.
> 
> Thanks to Jill and Kay, for all the help, support, and shared squee. (Not to mention Merry, a pimp for the ages!)


End file.
